The House of Shadows

Whatever people say, I truly believe four souls were sent into eternal night. The treasure chest is stolen, the barge is ransacked and pushed out into the river, where the tide takes it down to some reeds near Westminster .’
    ‘And the corpses of the four men?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘I don’t know, Sir John, I truly don’t.’
    ‘But why all this mention of the Oyster Wharf?’
    Athelstan was about to answer when there was a knock on the door. Colebrook entered, grasping a tap boy from the Night in Jerusalem by the scruff of his neck. The lad broke free and hurtled towards Athelstan, almost colliding with him.
    ‘Brother,’ he gasped. ‘You have to come.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Sir Domus—’
    ‘Sir Thomas,’ Athelstan corrected.
    ‘Well, he’s dead,’ the boy retorted, ‘stabbed through the heart with a pricket. Master Rolles is fair raging like a hungry dog on a leash.’
    ‘When did this happen?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘This morning,’ the boy declared, eyes riveted on the coin in Athelstan’s hand. ‘A real mystery,’ he whispered. ‘The windows all shuttered, the chamber doors all locked and barred. Master Rolles wasn’t pleased with that either.’ His little eyes didn’t leave the coin. ‘A good door to the Galahad Chamber broken down, bolts and hinges all destroyed. Sir Thomas lying in his own blood like a duck on a stall, fair swimming in blood he was—’
    ‘Thank you,’ Athelstan interrupted, pressing the coin into the child’s hand. ‘Now lead on, Gabriel.’
    ‘My name is not Gabriel.’
    ‘It is today,’ Athelstan smiled.
    They thanked Hubert and Colebrook and, with the lad scampering ahead like a monkey released from its chain, left the Lion Gate, up Thames Street and into Billingsgate. They pushed their way through the fish market, thrusting aside the sharp-eyed apprentices eager to sell them the fresh catch of the day. The boy moved like a coursed hare, dodging round the stalls, making obscene gestures at anyone trying to stop him. On the approaches to London Bridge , Cranston had to roar at him to halt whilst he and Athelstan paused to catch their breath.
    ‘Another murder, Brother,’ the coroner gasped, ‘and it looks as mysterious as the last.’
    And they were off again, threading their way through the narrow thoroughfare. They passed the shops and houses built on either side of the bridge, the gaps where the great laystalls stood, full of reeking rubbish from the midden heaps, wary of the makeshift sewer coursing down the centre of the thoroughfare. The stench was sickening. Athelstan hated the place. From the bridge rails soared the long ash poles bearing the severed heads of traitors and criminals. The boy had to slow down here, as the crowds thronged, to look over the side and watch the water rushing through, gape up at the severed heads, visit the shops and stalls, or pray in the cold darkness of St Thomas’ Chapel, built in the middle of the bridge directly above the rushing torrent. Athelstan crossed himself as he passed the half-open door. He sketched a blessing in the direction of Bourdon, the diminutive Keeper of the Bridge, who was sitting on the steps of the chapel, between his feet a bucket of brine in which he was washing the severed head of a criminal. Athelstan kept his eyes on the ground. Such sights were offensive, and the dizzying height over the rushing water always made him feel nervous. He was pleased to be off the bridge and hurrying down the lanes and alleyways and into the courtyard of the Night in Jerusalem .
    Rolles met them at the door and, like a prophet come to judgement, mournfully took them up the polished oaken staircase into the Galahad Chamber.
    ‘I told people not to move anything.’
    ‘Has Brother Malachi been sent for?’ Athelstan asked, staring down at the blood-soaked corpse.
    ‘He was here much earlier this morning,’ Rolles replied. ‘Then left with his belongings. Good riddance, say I.’
    ‘Did he come up here? Did he visit Sir Thomas?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘No, his chamber is on the other side. Anyway, at that time Sir Thomas wasn’t in his chamber but sitting in the garden. He came in; took a cup of malmsey and returned to his chamber. He’d hired the services of one of Mother Veritable’s girls, a whore called Rosamund. I’ve put her in the garden arbour.’
    Athelstan turned and looked at the door. The lintel had been ruined; the leather hinges, bolts and locks had torn away huge strips of wood as they